Felicity passed a fourth curricle. Now it was just her and Silas Wiltchurch, less than two hundred yards from the end. Wiltchurch’s fancy connections might let him get away with murder in Felicity’s world, but here at the races, he was nothing but a petty blackguard. The crowd had been on Felicity’s side from the moment she took the reins.
But she would need more than a cheering crowd to win. Wiltchurch was an insufferable, egotistical bully, but he was a ruthless driver in an exquisite carriage. He was used to winning and already had a head start. Giles could only stand helpless, his heart thundering as he watched.
Wiltchurch stuck to the center of the track, weaving back and forth so as not to allow any space for passing him on either side.
But all that weaving cost him momentum. His fifty-yard lead was now a thirty-yard-lead, then twenty, then ten.
When Felicity went left, Wiltchurch went left to block her.
When Felicity went right, Wiltchurch went right to block her.
When Felicity tried the left again, Wiltchurch—
But shewasn’ttrying the left! It was a feint; meant to make her opponent overreact to a perceived threat.
It was all the opening she needed.
With a final burst, she rounded him on the right, the nose and neck of her horses crossing the finish line half a second before Wiltchurch’s did the same. Giles’s heart exploded.
Complete pandemonium.
The crowd erupted in screams and whoops, cheering delightedly because the villain had got exactly what was coming to him.
Giles’s throat was already hoarse from all of his own yelling, and he took off running toward the finish line to sweep Felicity into his arms, trousers and all. She was his and theyhad done it, because they were a team and un-bloody-stoppable.
He couldn’t wait to swing her around—albeit with one arm—and kiss her, twirl her, dance with her, propose to her…
So where the devilwasshe?
Panting from exertion and pain, Giles stared in befuddlement at the Duke of Colehaven’s empty curricle.
Felicity had beenright here. Seconds ago. But now the only nearby person he recognized was—
The Duke of Colehaven.
Giles gulped at the duke’s understandably stormy expression.
“Congratulations,” he said, when the silence seemed to stretch indefinitely. “We won.”
At this, the duke’s face went purple.
“Youwere supposed to win,” he snarled. “I paidyouto race my carriage. Not to put… someone else… in harm’s way.”
Giles held up his wounded arm. “In the course of winning you the race, you might have noticed Silas Wiltchurch—”
“—is an insect whom I will deal with without remorse,” the duke interrupted. “But he was not the man I hired, and trusted to protect—”
Giles pulled up straight.
“Mypartner,” he enunciated, “should not be hidden and does not wish for anyone’s uninvited protection. If he wishes to display his talents to the world, I am not fool enough to get in his way.”
The duke opened his mouth.
Giles didn’t back down. “I don’t ‘let’ him do anything except be himself, and live the life he wishes. Blacksmith or emperor of England, it’s not up to me.”
“It isnotup to you,” the duke said coldly. “The race is over. You’re done.”
